


Whistleblower

by Othalla



Category: Spy (2015)
Genre: FBI/CIA Rivalry, Fine and Ford Being Stupid, Football | Soccer, Gen, Humor, Post-Canon, Tournaments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 07:05:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13676715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Othalla/pseuds/Othalla
Summary: Soccer is serious business.





	Whistleblower

**Author's Note:**

  * For [entwashian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/entwashian/gifts).



> Here, recip person, have the most self-indulgent fic I've ever written.
> 
> (Seriously I love the movie Spy and I love Susan and Rick and Fine and Elaine and Nancy and the fact that someone requested it made me so happy omg!!!)
> 
> *coughs*
> 
> Yeah, I hope you like it :P
> 
> And thank you, [rosefox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosefox), for your help :)

“Okay, that’s it,” Susan says after ten minutes of complete chaos. “I’m calling a time-out on behalf of me, the referee, because you’re all idiots and you’re giving me a headache. Which means all of you need to shut up and stop moving. Right now.” Susan points without looking. “That means you too, Fine.”

Nancy whispers nervously into her mic, “Is this allowed? I don’t think we’re supposed to take time-outs ourselves.”

“I’m the referee, I can do what I want,” Susan responds, because she doesn’t care about any stupid rules. They gave her a whistle and by God she’s willing to use it. “And anyone that disagrees will get the red card pushed so far inside their  _ fucking throats  _ they’ll be unable to eat solid food for days because the fucking thing will be  _ stuck there _ . Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Fine says and holds up his hands with his palms forward, looking at Susan like he wants her to walk on him in high heels. “Crystal.” 

His eyes are sparkling like thousands of little diamonds have made their homes in their creepily pretty blue waters. Which, ouch. But also, crikey almighty, Susan wants to both slap him and suck his face like a face-sucking octopus.

“Great. That’s  _ dandy _ ,” Susan says, and elects to ignore him.

Instead she turns with her hands on her hips to stare at Ford. Ford who is terrible for all too many reasons to list, and also has his shorts pulled up to his waist. Ford, the bane of her life and CIA’s unofficial soccer team, who’s going to make them  _ lose _ against the FBI’s unofficial soccer team in the annual unofficial secret super spy soccer tournament that isn’t taking place  _ at all. _

Officially, that is.

But yeah,  _ no way is S _ usan going to accept losing against FBI again. Last year’s defeat was like someone had shat all over a sweet strawberry shortcake, making the poop look like fancy chocolate from fancy fucking stores so that people would eat it thinking,  _ sweet, strawberry shortcake, I love my life!  _ And then they’d taste what shit it actually was but there’d be no going back because there’d be shit on their tongues. They’d have to swallow it. And then they’d have to live the rest of their lives knowing that they’d eaten cake made of shit.

So no, the situation can’t go on the way it is, because fuck everything if Ford is going to make Susan fucking Cooper eat fucking  _ shit cake _ twice. She’s too pretty for that sort of shit.

“This isn’t working,” she says finally, gesturing at Ford’s whole person, because it’s not just one part of him that’s not working, it’s  _ all of him _ . His shorts and his face and his nonexistent brain.

“What do you mean it isn't working? I almost scored a goal before you whistled like an idiot!” 

Susan stares at him incredulously, because that’s just not an accurate statement. “Did you, or did you not, just kick the goalpost and almost break your foot because it offended you by being in the way?”

“It fucking  _ was  _ in the way!” Ford retorts loudly, his face red. “I was about to score and the fucking pole just went up and hit me in the face!”

“It’s a  _ goalpost _ ,” Susan shouts back at him, matching his loudness and then some. “ _ Goalposts  _ are stationary objects. They don’t  _ move _ .” She points at him with her whole arm, as if that will help force concepts such as goalposts not having legs into his stupid head. “ _ You _ moved.”

Around them, people start backing away.

Ford juts a finger in her direction and grows, if possible, redder in the face. Spittle flies when he speaks. “Now, you see here, Cooper. I’m bloody British. I can play football better than anyone of you blasted Americans pansies, and if I say the pole moved, it fucking  _ moved _ .”

Because Fine never can leave well enough alone, he says, “It’s called soccer, Ricky darling. Football is for real men.”

Unexpectedly Ford doesn’t take that comment well.

“ _ I will fucking murder you with my fucking shoe!” _ he screams. He starts to move towards Fine to make good on his promise, only a man hopping on one leg as he tries to take off his shoe on the other foot isn’t anything near menacing. “I will strangle you with the shoelace. Then I will clobber you in your fucking pretty face with the spikes. And if you’re still conscious at that point, then I’ll take off my other shoe and do it all over again!”

It’s just weird.

So Susan has to hand out five red cards, because Ford just tried to commit multiple accounts of homicide by blunt force trauma, and Fine is a dick. Then Elaine gets involved and things escalate, because apparently Elaine has feelings about soccer, which, who knew? Not fucking Susan, that’s for sure.

After, when Ford and Fine are relegated to different changing rooms because they’re five years old and seem to want to eat shit cake for the rest of their lives, Nancy slides up next to her like a particularly graceless giraffe. “Ford is right, you know. He’s not very bright, maybe, but it is called football. Not, soccer or whatever you Americans call it.” She nods to herself, satisfied with making her point. 

Susan pats Nancy on the shoulder, because Nancy is the only good thing left in this world—outside of her collage book of pretty fine Fine pictures she’ll never show another soul, and only takes out when Fine’s being extra annoying and she deserves some alone time with a version of him that just stays put and smiles prettily. But it’s not like anyone knows about those. “I hear you. I don’t agree, because fuck Europe, but I hear you.”

Nancy makes a weird sound, like she can’t decide if she should be offended on behalf of her shitty not-a-continent-but-pretending-to-be or not. Evidently she decides not to, as she asks, “So, how do you think we’ll do?”

Susan looks over at Cress and Wright. They’re supposed to be passing a ball to each other, but instead Cress has put it beneath his shirt and is waddling around like an idiot.

“We’re going to die,” Susan says. “Horribly.”

 


End file.
